


Quaranteam

by noah_swan



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Chicken Pox, Fluff, Gen, M/M, Sick Peter Parker, Sick Steve Rogers, Superhusbands (Marvel)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-18
Updated: 2020-09-18
Packaged: 2021-03-07 19:13:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,968
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26522731
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/noah_swan/pseuds/noah_swan
Summary: The serum works, until it doesn't.Or: mundanity in the Stark-Rogers penthouse.
Relationships: Peter Parker & Steve Rogers & Tony Stark, Steve Rogers/Tony Stark
Comments: 1
Kudos: 128





	Quaranteam

"Come on, Petey." 

A slightly weary, slightly stir-crazy Steve Rogers hoisted his four-year-old up by the underarms, pausing to kiss his temple, before settling the boy on his hip. Peter, normally the first to proclaim that he is  _ too old to be carried _ , complied with no protest; instead, his head dropped heavily to Steve's shoulder. 

"Papa," he whined quietly, reaching for a fistful of his father's t-shirt. "Papa?" His voice wobbled. 

Steve couldn't help it— as he carried Peter from the kitchen to the bathroom of their Stark Towers penthouse, his eyes caught every clock. On the oven, on the wall, on the open tablet on the counter.  _ Still an hour and a half til Tony's home. _

It wasn't that Steve didn't love quality time with his son. But a day alone with the sick four-year-old was beginning to take its toll; a steady throb pulsed in his temple, and the super soldier couldn't seem to keep his eyes open. Though Steve found them tedious and distasteful, he couldn't help but lament the black-tie dinner his husband was currently networking.  _ Just an hour and a half _ . 

"JARVIS, run the tub lukewarm, please." 

Steve turned his attention back to Peter. The little boy was spotted with hours-old calamine lotion, whose light pink hue contrasted sharply against his flushed skin. Peter had come down with the chicken pox only the day before, coming as a complete surprise to both Steve and Tony; it wasn't going around his Kindergarten. It also came at a rather inconvenient time. While Steve was still on break from SHIELD, Tony had been tied up for days in end-of-quarter financial meetings for Stark Industries. 

So, here he was. Gently undressing his miserable, feverish, squirming son, and coaxing him towards a bathtub full of porridge oats. "Papa," Peter sniffed. "It's murky." 

"It will make you feel better," Steve promised. "Less itchy." He tested the water temperature, before flicking a handful of water at his son. Normally vibrant, the deflated giggle that Peter offered was dull in comparison; he sounded as tired as Steve felt. 

The pair made quick work of the bath, with minimal rubber ducky action. Small clumps of oatmeal swirled around the drain as Steve and Peter went through the abbreviated motions of the boy's bedtime routine; of course, the boy wanted his Hulk footies, still pleased from Bruce's house call earlier in the day… Despite the scientist's routine assertion that he wasn't  _ that _ kind of Doctor. 

Warm, sleepy, and snuffly, Peter was content to doze in Steve's arms, as the soldier dragged himself around the master bedroom. He wasn't going to attempt putting Peter in his own bed for the night; easier, instead, to have him close by. Of course, the fact that Steve had also been wearing his own pajamas for most of the day, also made things easier; his flannel bottoms were slightly damp from bathtime, and streaked with a bit of lotion, but they were warm, and he was lazy. Or tired. Or lazy-tired. To the bone. 

Peter settled as a warm weight, draped across Steve's chest. JARVIS cut the lights. 

— — — 

"Sweetheart?" 

There was a hand in Steve's hair. Rather than awaken to immediate alertness, as he normally did, Steve desperately clung to the dredges of sleep. The hand continued carding through his hair, as if the person attached knew that head-patting was his kryptonite. 

"Steve." A weight settled beside him on the bed. "Steve, wake up for me, love." 

Reluctantly, he blinked awake. 

Bow tie undone, collared shirt unbuttoned, Tony looked handsomely disheveled. As much as Steve loathed the events his husband often dragged him to, he always enjoyed the opportunity to see Tony dressed up and in his element.

"There you are," Tony rubbed a hand up and down Steve's chest. "Hi." 

Steve pushed himself into a wilted seating position, disoriented as he scanned the room. "Pete. Where's Peter?" He scrubbed a hand across his face.

"He's in his room, out cold. Didn't even stir when I got him up." Tony settled on the edge of the bed, bending down to untie the laces of his polished shoes. "Like you, huh? Are you feeling okay?" One hand worked to unbutton his shirt, and the other rested protectively against Steve's sternum. 

The super soldier swallowed convulsively. "Yeah. Bizarrely tired. I'm sorry." 

"Itchy?" 

Tony was stripped to his undershirt and slacks now. He offered his husband a wry smile. Steve, however, frowned in confusion. "What?" 

"You look like a leopard, Steve." A mechanics-calloused hand lifts the hem of Steve's sleep shirt (well-worn, a souvenir from some  _ Vets for Vets _ charity event Sam was running). Sure enough, his stomach is speckled. 

A low sound of confusion rumbles from Steve's chest. "I've had this before," he said simply, pulling his legs out from under the covers to inspect. Under his flannel pants, they too, were covered. He frowned. 

"Aw, sweetheart." Tony thumbed across his husband's jaw. "At least it missed your handsome face. So far." 

Steve slumped further, rubbing his cheek against Tony's bare shoulder. "I don't understand." Captain America didn't whine, but Steve Rogers was coming dangerously close. "You only get it once." 

"Must've been a reset with the serum, like the rest of your immune system. Good news for you is, I had this in the fourth grade. And no serum. So, at least that's something." Tony rubbed the back of Steve's head, gently, carding his fingers through the soft hair at the nape of the younger ( _ older _ ?  _ he was never sure _ ) man's neck. "C'mon, lay back." 

Steve was already losing his battle with sleep. Eyelids half-mast, he offered up a small smile as he settled against his pillow. "'sthis mean you're home for the week?" 

Stripped to his briefs, Tony climbed in, monkey-latching himself over his husband's back. "Mm. At-home super-heroing. Just what the doctor ordered." 

— — — 

Morning found Steve slightly worse for the wear. 

"Papa's spotty," Pete observed; balanced in Steve's lap, clutching both a juice box and his stuffed otter, the little boy was more focused on  _ Peppa Pig _ than anything else. His father was more focused on not throwing up. Or clawing the skin off his body. Or jumping out the window. Steve was bent at an angle, half-sitting and half-laying, face pressed against the leather couch cushion. His thoughtful husband had left him a lined wastebasket on the floor. 

"Mhmm." 

Peter quirked an eyebrow, sipping his juice. "Papa looks like Petey." 

Truthfully, Peter normally favored Steve's looks, anyways. His hair and features were light, eyes blue, as opposed to Tony's dark hair; the adoption was random, but Tony still griped about it, anyways. The pox only added to their similarity. 

Steve couldn't remember the last time he'd felt this awful. Sometime before he met Erskine, definitely, but maybe right beforehand. His mother was already gone; he knew that. He'd been alone for some time, shivering in and out of multiple seasonal ailments between her Fall burial and his Summer transformation. There had been quite a few close calls. 

That last time, though, the very last Steve was ever sick as a mortal man— he wasn't alone. It was Bucky's return home, during the week of the Carnival. Home on leave for mere days, and yet still, Bucky found time to mop Steve's brow. The memory pools warmly against the supersoldier's sternum. 

Bucky, now, was somewhere deep in Serbia; at least, that's what Fury had briefed him on, earlier in the month. It was projected to be a slightly longer mission. Nothing out of the ordinary, but Steve found himself missing Bucky, all the same. 

Of course, he wasn't alone, anymore— Tony was burning grilled cheese and tomato soup in the other room. Peter was chewing the tiny ear on his otter, babbling away at the television. He was home, in his pajamas, late on a Tuesday morning. Even sick, and nauseous beyond belief, he was  _ safe _ . 

That, alone, put him at ease. His eyes lulled closed, to the sound of sizzling (and swearing?) in the kitchen, and Peppa's oinks. 

— — — 

Steve woke to a weight on his chest, and bony knee digging into his sternum. Fight-or-flight activated, he tried to force himself sideways off of the couch, to no avail— at most, he managed to awkwardly strain against the strong hands pinning his arms above his head.   
"What the f—" 

"Language, Cap." Perched on the back of the sofa, one leg balanced on his chest, Natasha ripped a roll of duct tape with her teeth. "You're so fussy." 

Deep laughter rumbled from behind Steve's ear. "Fussy," Sam echoed. "Yeah, that's a word for it." He patted Steve on head, with the hand not cuffing the super soldier's wrists. Clint stood at the foot of the couch, keeping watch with an amused grin.

"Fussy," Peter repeated, toddling up to the couch. A blue popsicle was melting in his left hand—left mitten, actually. "Papa?" 

Steve blinked, slowly. "I'm… not sure what's going on here." 

Natasha ripped another strip of duct tape; something trapped Steve's hands, still pinned by Sam. 

"You're a big baby, Cap." Sam released his wrists. "Basically a 5 year old, right Pete? Scratching in your sleep like some kinda animal." Peter moo'ed. "What he said." 

Steve's hands now mirrored his son's; encased in oven mitts, slightly charred from one of Tony's previous oven experiments. His friends suck. 

Abruptly, the stronghold was released. Natasha patted his chest, and leapt over the back of the couch. 

"Should you guys be here? We're in quarantine." 

There was a chorus of laughs. "Your husband buys us dinner on Tuesday nights. I wouldn't miss that for the Black Plague." Clint cuffed Steve's calf. "Besides, chump. I've had this before. And I want Chinese food." 

"Same." 

"Same." 

"You guys are the worst." 

— — — 

"That's horrible, Clint." Digging her chopsticks into a communal carton of lo mein, Natasha looked unamused. 

The archer shrugged. "Some people are too sensitive." He paused to slurp a noodle. "Don't tell my wife I said that, though. She's still mad I took off for Manhattan this week. Left her with the kids all gross." 

Tony blinked. "All gross?" He exchanged a glance with his husband, who was poking lethargically at some white rice; he was mitten-free on one hand, momentarily. "Well, I guess we solved the mystery of where you picked this up. Clint's heathen children." 

"Oh, you didn't get it from the kids." Clint looked suspiciously confident for a man who still struggled with his chopsticks. "Takes two weeks for the virus to incubate. I've become something of an expert, really. Practically a doctor at this point. Right Bruce?" 

The doctor, previously minding orange chicken, looked up. "Clint, you called me four times Saturday night. You clogged your wife's bathtub with oatmeal." A loose wonton cracker was flung at Banner's temple, to the tune of uproarious laughter. 

"Quiet, you heathens," Tony griped. "You're gonna wake the poor, sick, innocent, napping baby." 

"Steve is right there!" 

The Captain offered them a cheerful smile, before lightly smushing his cheek against his husband's shoulder. Truthfully, it had been a long day— he'd give all the calamine lotion in the world to be passed out in the nursery with Peter right now. But, it was Team Dinner night. He'd endure. 

"Why does he nap at 5pm, anyways? That's on you, boo. That's practically bedtime." Sam raised an eyebrow. 

Tony poised to relaunch Bruce's wonton projectile. "He's my kid! He's a night owl, what can I say?" 

"Ahem! As I was saying, before I was so rudely interrupted," Clint said, around a mouthful, "my heathen children's germs did not cause your boo thing's spotty problem. Natasha's did." 

There was a moment of silence. 

"You're such a snitch," the Russian griped. "You'd make a terrible spy." The wonton flew. 

Mouth agape, Tony looked momentarily fish-like. "You're impenetrable. A fortress of germ impropriety. I don't understand." 

"Must've picked it up somewhere, I guess. I was spotty for weeks. Made the mistake of holing up at the Barton Homestead before I knew I was contagious…" 

Steve lifted his head, pointing accusatorial. "You stopped here, first— on the way back from Barcelona." 

"Sorry, Cap. Next pint of pink lotion's on me." 

— — —

"This is weird." Steve ran a hand through the milky water, pooling around his waist. Across the large bathtub, Peter— in matching swim trunks, of course, because Tony was  _ like _ that— splashed happily with a rubber boat. 

"It's like going to the pool. But the pool smells good."

Chuckling, Tony dipped a hand into the water. "Ah. Just right, huh? Dad knows how it's done." Sitting on the bathmat, rocking a slightly damp, black tank top, the engineer flicked bathwater at his son. 

"Why aren't you gonna swim?" 

"I'm lifeguarding." 

The only difficulty of the arrangement was Steve's size. No matter how he contorted his body, there was no way to submerge more than half of his spotty flesh into the soothing water. He couldn't doze, either— not until Peter was up and out of the tub, lotioned, and tucked into bed. It wasn't a very comfortable situation, but it was cute. He'd sketch it, later. 

Peter splashed. 

As the water grew slightly more tepid, the young boy's eyelids began to droop. Where he would normally beg to extend playtime in the bath, he now was wilting sideways quite prematurely. Tony and Steve exchanged a knowing glance. 

Yet, just as Steve prepared to stiffly raise himself from the bathtub: the phone rang. Well, JARVIS rang. "Sirs," the tinny British voice echoed over the tiles. "There is a call on the line." 

Tony rolled his eyes. "This code needs a serious update." He groped behind him for the StarkPhone he'd strewn on the floor. "Of course there's a call on the line, you idiot— Hello?"

There was a pause, as Tony listened, and then "mhmm'd." 

"Yup, for sure. Glad it's good. Gimme a sec, yeah?" He tucked the phone against his shoulder, before hoisting a sopping wet Peter out of the tub. Steve watched with sleepy eyes, grateful he wouldn't have to expend the last of his energy wrangling the child. 

Tony wrapped Peter in his hooded towel (an otter, of course), and sat him on the lid of the toilet, to dry. He turned to his husband, bending, while murmuring into the phone. With two wet hands, he gently manipulated Steve's shoulders down, down, until Steve had slid himself neck-deep into the water. Tony tapped his knees, and he twisted them sideways— so that somehow, his brilliant husband fit his whole, hulking, itchy body under the oatmeal-infused waterline. 

"Good?" The smaller man smiled, placing the phone on the lip of the tub. He tapped once. "You're on speaker, my friend. He's all yours." Kissing his husband on the forehead, where it was now pressed against the edge of the tile, Tony rose to his feet, grabbed Peter, and quietly left the bathroom. 

Steve, groggy and slightly confused, couldn't even move to check the Caller ID. "Hello?" 

"This feels familiar, huh Stevie?" The fist clenched beneath Steve's sternum loosened, then. "Stark says this is Natasha's fault, but I'd still chalk this up to your shitty luck." 

An easy laugh rumbled from the bath. "We've done this before, Buck. Shitty's an understatement." 

"You think I forgot? I was in cryo, and I can still smell the iodine your mama thought would ease the itch. Had us sat up on the windowsill for the fresh air. 'Course, we couldn't smell anything but the menthol rub she insisted on, anyways." The Soldier's laugh crackled slightly over the line. 

"'S nice to hear from you, Buck. Mission status?" He attempted to sound vaguely assertive, but was undercut slightly by the weak coughing that followed.

"Mission's fine, Stevie. I'll be home soon enough. Just gotta tie up some loose strings over here. Take your medicine and be a good boy, yeah?" 

Steve snorted. "Punk." 

"Those spots better clear by the time I'm back in the city. I've had enough of your germs for ten enhanced lifetimes. Feel better, brother. I'll see you soon." 

After Steve murmured his goodbye, he paused for a moment in the now-chilled, slightly-clumpy water— smiled to himself— and then reached to flick the drain open. 

— — —

Laying only in his boxers, splayed out across the bed, Steve couldn't help but feel a little like he did in his USO-showboy days. Except, the hands on his exposed body, belonged to his husband. Also, his son was there. 

"I think this one looks kinda like Orion. If Orion's belt was really long… and shaped like the Waffle House logo." With a green Crayola marker, Tony traced a series of spots along the bottom of Steve's rib cage. 

Pete traced along, too, in purple. "Oh-rye-on." 

Reaching out a (finally mitten-free) hand, Steve smoothed a lock of hair from Peter's forehead. Tony frowned, silently raising an eyebrow.  _ No fever _ , Steve tried to convey, smiling slightly.  _ He's just cute. _

Family time was, unfortunately, often rushed in the Stark-Rogers household; one parent suited up, the other swamped with paperwork. Rarely were either of them able to do  _ nothing _ , let alone together. Though itchy, and slightly overheated, Steve was relishing the lazy evening. For once, they had nowhere to be. (They were technically quarantined in the penthouse, for fear of exposing Natasha's hell pathogens, elsewhere. But still.) 

"Mm," Steve protested slightly, pushing the marker off his stomach for a moment. "Tickles." 

Tony gasped, feigning horror. "It tickles?" He glanced at his son, horror slowly melting into a devious smirk. "Hmm. I think Papa might need more tickles. What do you think, Petey-pie?" 

Peter giggled. "Hmm," he repeated, grinning. "Hmmmmmm!" 

In the split second before his husband and son pounced upon him, Steve could only smile. Sick with a child's illness, stuck at home.  _ No place better _ . 


End file.
